By: Grainne Rhuad

I recently found myself in front of the Hunger Games.  It had been decided by the young ones in my life that I had to attend.  So there I was, entirely expecting another Narnia/Harry Potter/ Shiny-teen mash-up full of the requisite teen angst, longing stares and unrequited romance.

Thankfully it ended up being none of these things and I found myself enjoying it.  It probably helped that I hadn’t read the books, not because they hadn’t been sitting in my plain sight for more than a year, also not due to the fact that they hadn’t been lovingly gushed about by each person in my life under 20.  No, I hadn’t read it because I had reached teen reading burnout a while ago. Also I figured, rightly in this case that if I was being told the plot of it on an almost daily basis at home it would soon be a movie.

Now, the movie itself wasn’t a great work of art.  But it was special, I think in two ways.

1.It was watchable.  So much of the PG-13 packaged movies are insipid and clearly designed to either make pre-teens buy stuff or want to sign up for something. Example:  A marked rise in female soccer players after Bend It Like Beckham and Increased Karate class sizes after both incarnations of Karate Kid.  Although sadly this sales technique did not work out as well for Akeela and the Bee.

2.This movie and the success of the book seemed to be a part of a continuum of movies, television shows and books marketed directly at young people which contain revolutionary tones.

It was the second thing that interested me. (Although I’m sure plenty of kids are going to want to take archery now.)

The Hunger Games series is meant to be a tale of heroic personages overcoming corrupt governments that use their conquered people for both sustenance and entertainment.  It has been described as part Running Man and part Lord of the Flies, and while I’d question the Lord of the Flies bit, it gives you a good enough idea.

Some reviewers and fans have referred to the emergence of Katniss as the morally righteous and still kick-ass; take no prisoners heroine as the crowning achievement in a new Feminist model for storytelling.

In fact, Lynn Parramore penned an article published at Alternet which took it further stating that finally women are getting more power both in film and real life and we are ready to accept women as our saviors in this time of economic turmoil.  Especially, as “Men just aren’t getting the job done.”

To me this message seems at odds with how we are actually treating women as a culture.  Surely nobody has missed the recent headlines detailing women’s rights to birth control and other health needs?  Did Parramore somehow miss every one of Santorum’s speeches? Did she also miss the last decade of Rush Limbaugh?  Or how about any of the Christian churches on our soil, actively teaching women should be at home birthing babies?

Herein lies the problem for me; why, at this time, when our government clearly wants to curtail thoughts of subversion, are we seeing more of it in film?

Take for example the wildly popular Starz series, Spartacus.  Yes it is popular for the sex and nakedness that pleases heteros and gays and everyone in-between as well as for the generous violence, but hidden underneath all that is the story.  The story of a slave rebellion led by a very angry but very moral and righteous leader which occurs not because slavery exists, but because of poor treatment.

That’s not all, HBO has also been successful with their noble and moral heroes on Game of Thrones; the entirety of the cast takes up arms to fight for their brand of justice this year.

Last year also saw X-Men back on the screen, a notoriously riotous crew, who showed just exactly how the outcast mutants began giving the finger to our government. This year our crime fighters are all about vigilantes with Batman coming back as an unwanted addition to Gotham and Wolverine spinning through to piss everyone off.

These are not the heroes that teach us of Truth, Justice and the American Way, like the first round of Super Hero movies targetting youth  after 9/11.

What all these shows have in common is they are aimed at a younger audience and they convey an attitude of subversion.  Is this an accident?  Do we really want our youth to act out against authority?

I think it’s more complicated than that.  I think the goal is to make people believe they are experiencing rebellious acts without actually committing them.

Studies of brain patterns of athletes show that when they have down-time due to injury, watching their sport makes them believe in their mind they are still actively practicing.  Now, their bodies obviously will not be getting a work out, but their heads are still in the game, they are still learning the tactics and mechanics.

Now take that idea and apply it to a bunch of young adults sitting in a movie theatre or at home in front of a movie, or even playing a video game.  While they are taking images into their minds they get adrenaline rushes, raised heart rates and emotional stimulation.  Their minds believe they are participating in what they are viewing.

This explains why so many young people who go on shooting sprees are so incredibly bad at it.  They think they know how to be militant tacticians from playing video games.  In actuality, given the time of most shooting sprees, if someone had actually been trained, we would see a lot more death at any given school, etc.

I believe this is no accident.  In order to maintain control of people who would traditionally be the most fed up and most likely to act out on their ideals of injustice it seems like a good idea to satiate that desire with a false belief that they have experienced some of it.  It’s filling an emotional need and tricking the brain without having to manage a revolution of young people.

Because of this, I see things that help audiences’ brains experience a story getting more high tech.  3D is already well on the way and I suspect that other impactful technology that has been tried on audiences in the past like smell, electricity and movement will be revived.

But, maybe I’m wrong; maybe it’s just an accident that Total Recall is being re-made to be more consumer friendly to young people.

In any case I was brightened to see as I walked out of the theatre, groupings of youth from 13 to 25-ish standing about and comparing notes.  Was this realistic?  Could I, you, we have done any of that?  What would you do?

It made me feel a little more hopeful that it seemed that while they loved the story, they were in some ways doing a reality check.  Not all of them, but some.

Maybe the human race won’t be satiated into oblivion.

By: Amnesia Grok

I’m sitting here on a Saturday afternoon & I’m reading about the end.

As in THE END.

As in predictions of the final curtain, visions of destruction. Trumpets & seals & cups & oodles of 7’s. Th-th-the-that’s all f-f-folks!

The earth, it will end in fire & in water & it will end in asteroids & in Mexicans.

Generation after generation, all riled up about an end that never knocked. Layer upon layer of dusty eschatologies, disproven by default.

Paul was all riled up & his eyes were struck blind & his hair was on fire.

& he said if you weren’t already married then don’t even bother getting married now!

There’s no time!

Tell everyone before it’s too late!

There was a real sense of urgency about it.

How many bad dates have to come & go before there’s just a collective yawn?

What if things just go on & on & on &…

Way past the point where there is any point to be had?

& everything gets older & worse & the sky less blue & the grass isn’t hardly green at all no more? & the Lincoln Memorial cracks & the paint on the barn fades & no one bothers to write new songs or to clean the animals’ cages?

On & on, without even the vague hope of a fiery end or some new Hitler to capture our attention for a minute or two?

That guy out there howling in the street? You know, the one with the sandwich board that reads //The End is Near\\?

He could turn out to have been an optimist!

Ode to Beachy Head
by Renee Y. Brown

On England’s south coast
Is a cliff so high
Suicidal folks boast
It’s a great place to die
Much worth the trip
If you’ve got the mind
To take a slip
And smash to grinds.

The aspiring dead
They fall, they fall,
From Beachy Head
And that’s not all
They jump, they fly
And then, they die
Oh, if I could
Then so would I!

I hear the call
Of Beachy Head
So far, so tall
So spirited!
That highest cliff
Of the English coast
There is no “if”
Or faint approach
To that terminal height
And final dive
Descending in flight
Splat! I’ll arrive
My ghost to haunt
This foreign shore
No pain no want
Never here, never more.

The chosen fate
Of gourmet suicides
Like the Golden Gate
It’s known worldwide
So come one, come all
To a suicide’s ball
We’ll drink, we’ll dance
Then take the fall
Into endless romance,
Metaphysical.

My sister lives near Beachy Head
And so
I will go
To join the dance of the dead
Oh sister dear
Don’t cry, don’t fear
Death comes, death comes
To everyone —
Whether we embrace it
Or run
Whether we face it
Or shun —
You can try to outrace it
But it won’t be outrun.

I choose
My own
Longevity
The time, the place, the way
Of meeting with eternity
So I can have my say
Over fate, biology, and God —
Since I care for life less
Than I love my dead dog.

King of White Roses
by Renee Y. Brown

Will I see you again,
                         golden, golden —
On the field of my final homecoming,
                         there shining —
You, heart of a lion
Unconquered —
                         golden, golden
And mine.

You, heart of a dove;
                         infinite, unbroken,
                         faultless and loyal
Facets of a diamond
Hard as courage, never unknown;
White light of compassion
Never unshown.

I dream a field
Of pure white roses;
I see you,
Splendid gold amidst a galaxy of whiteness,
The only star in a vitreous sky.
You walk…then run to me;
Even the roses sigh
                         when you pass by —
They part and bow their blossomed heads
Genuflecting in your honor.
They fill my arms to overflowing with the fragrances of white:
                         Sweet innocence —
                         Essence of honor —
                         Freshness of
                                                  Immaculate love —

But the roses fly everywhere
When you jump into my arms!
Petals flutter as they fall
Anointing you in celebration —
The return of the son
And the only true love
As one, to the other
Never parting;
The promise kept.
My long waiting in the measurement of time is over —
And at last,
                         The Gate opens wide for us.

My eyes will weep with joy
When we reunite, my
                         Golden One;
I will shout
Hosanna!
                         And even the palms shall lay down for you
                         In the field of final homecoming,
My King of White Roses —
                         golden, golden.

art by Tara Lee Grady

If
by Renee Y. Brown

If there exists
In quantum stride
Between, betwixt
This shore, this tide
A different field
Of infinite scope
I’ll gladly yield
To highest hope —
With consciousness
And wiser eye,
This sorry flesh
In which I lie.

The End of the Line
by Renee Y. Brown

It’s a mighty short road to the end of the line
Seems like you just get here then you’re out of time
You can walk, you can run, you can crawl, you can fly —
Still your whole life’s over in the blink of an eye.

It don’t seem right,
It sure ain’t fair;
But the end of the line
Will always be there.

The end of the line ain’t a place or a time
There ain’t no money, and nothing is “mine.”
Got no hunger, no fear, no want or pain
No need for shelter ‘cause there ain’t no rain.

All are equal at the end of the line
Bag-lady and billionaire stand side-by-side
Judgment ain’t easy, but there’s one thing you’ll know;
You get what you’ve earned, be it ‘up’ or ‘below.’

Got a few rules judgment tends to go by
Decent human values and ethics apply —
If you know ‘em and shown ‘em you’ll be just fine,
But a sociopath will break down and cry!

If you’re thinkin’ the judges are random and cruel
Remember this one inescapable rule:
When you’re ‘called on the carpet’ for the final and true —
Look at yourself ‘cause the ‘judges’ are YOU.

So the last shall be first, and the first shall be last;
Some go up easy, some go down fast
There’s no ‘do-over’s’ so don’t bother to whine —
Too late for self-pity at the end of the line.

We’re all on our way to the end of the line
Some take it quick, some take their time
Some stand in the middle, can’t make up their minds —
But there’s no going back, so why look behind?

There are times when I wish I could get there right now
Because I’m so weary, so beaten, so hurtin’, so down…
But sometimes I feel like I’m doing just fine —
That’s when I hope
It’s a long, long road to the end of the line.

One Tiny Rose
by Renee Y. Brown

The tea rose may be small in size
But its meaning far transcends its guise.
Bestows this message to those bereaved:
“Love conquers death,”
Implied — Believed
Upon one tiny rose received —
And placed in one small casket,
Grieved.

“With this rose you take my heart,
With this rose, remembrance starts;
One tiny rose to encompass all,
Me—the finite; You—immortal.”

Blessed are they who mourn, unreserved;
Through them a greater good is served.
For those who love their all and best,
Shall with the richest grief be blessed.

“This one tiny rose I give you today
Shall bloom in white for as long as it may
Until you give it back to me, still new —
And we dance among roses of every hue.”

By: Amnesia Grok

This kid shows up on my doorstep the other day, fingertipping the doorbell pathologically like he’s just discovered the clitoris or something. & what the clitoris is is… Well, we’ll go into that later, maybe. I tend to go off track & we’re pressed for time. Go ask your mum about it.

But this kid on my doorstep… Yeah.

He looks like a good kid: white teeth, shined shoes, cuff links, no visible tattoos, the whole nine yards. Daddy would approve, you know? & sure it’s like 8:30 on a Sunday morning, but this is 1 wholesome, all-American kid, I’m telling ya, & I’m the 1 who stays out too late on Saturday nights.

Unless… Maybe the kid is another one of those crackheads I keep hearing about. Could be he hasn’t even been to bed yet!

But then again, I keep seeing those shoes. Those shoes have not been out all night, no ways.

So I look @ him expectantly, waiting for whatever happens next. Surprise me, baby.

//Good morning!\\ he inaccurately snorts, just alluva sudden. & I gotta tell you, he’s really not off to a winning start. & //have you heard about Jesus Christ?\\

Have I what?

//Jesus Christ, you say?\\ I say, //No, what is that? Never heard of that. Must be new, or else someone’s keeping a tight lid on it. Low profile kinda thing.\\

I look around all conspirator-like & I say, //Thanks for the heads up. Don’t worry: I’ll keep my eyes peeled, & I’ll make a full report if I hear anything.\\

Then I close the door & go back to bed.

Just another ranting crackhead waking me up on a Sunday morning? Or is it something more?

There’s just no way to know for certain. So if you hear any more about this whole //Jesus Christ\\ thingamabob, you should probably contact the Sunday doorbell kid right away. It might allow him to sleep in for a change.

 By: Amnesia Grok

& I have this friend, you see.

She’s a good friend & an overall fine gal,

makes a good bloody mary,

washes behind her ears,

& never picks her nose in public.

What else could you ask for in a friend,

really?

But there’s this & here’s the thing…

She’s got this tattoo…

& the tattoo goes all the way around her arm

& it’s red and it’s black and it’s white,

& it’s like a Nazi armband.

Complete with Swastika.

Perfectly nice girl,

but I do wonder about her judgment.

I mean, she’s never so much as hinted

that she & I should go

running through town on a Saturday night

& break storefront windows

of Jewish shop owners

or invade Poland.

& maybe she’s into Nazi imagery

the same way the next guy is into Star Wars

or Twilight.

But is it still too soon?

& I mean, even me…

I have this damn John Edwards ’08 tat

to remind me of my own embarrassing past.

But a Swastika?

Let me lay it down –

if it were me?

I’d get the thing retouched

into something less horrific.

Like maybe an image of Kevin Costner

being sodomized by the Bee Gees.

But the tat is there

& from the looks of it

it’s not going anywhere

for as long as she still has the arm.

& I remain her friend

despite my doubts.

But we never talk politics

& I never use her shower

or her oven.

By: Amnesia Grok

In the old days,

my sisters & I

(& there were many of us) (more than you could count on all your clubbed fingers & all your hammer toes) (tho the # varied some w/ the season & sometimes I believe there to have been a fake an interloper a cuckoo – or maybe 3 – amongst us at any given time)

my sisters & I,

we would wait

& we’d be very quiet

w/ our ears peeled for the clop-clop-clop

& for the call we’d come to know so well.

The man in the black carriage

coming on down the alley.

Shouting,

//Fetuses! Stillborns! Cast-offs!

$5 per! $5 per!\\

In the old days,

$5 was a lot of money, you see

& it would have been maybe a week & a ½

since any of us had ate a full meal

or been able to afford fresh porn

or Windex.

But even a cockroach can live for months just on the glue on the back of a postage stamp.

So we’d eat our glue

& we’d bide our time

& we’d wait for Amnio Baba to return

coming on down the alley.

In the old days.

//Fetuses! Stillborns! Cast-offs!\\

//Fetuses! Stillborns! Cast-offs!\\

In the old days,

my sisters & I

we’d squeal & we’d run,

our hearts all a’pitter patter,

dreaming of what we’d buy w/ that $5

or if it had been an exceptionally

hella strange quarter

maybe $10.

Selling to Amnio Baba

our latest abortions

maybe still twitching

or maybe already drifting

in formaldehyde.

It varied a lot.

Sometimes a sister

would get impatient

would get greedy,

jump the gun,

& try to pawn off an embryo

hardly more than a blastocyst, really.

But Amnio Baba was no fool.

Amnio Baba, he knew.

He’d been at this game for years by then.

& even his horse would turn up its nose at such fare.

& Amnio Baba would take a gander

@ this simple collection of cells

posing as a fetus

& then Amnio Baba would shout:

//What is it that you take me for, you thieving pre-teen fraud?

& how dare you run out here

& try to pass off this…

this zygotic monstrosity

as a fetus!!

Why, I have ½ a mind to skip this house entirely

next go-round!\\

//& then you & all your bloody sisters

can go & try

to sell off your oozing miscarriages

to some hackneyed carnie somewhere

@ maybe ½ the price & twice the bother.

I warn you, girl: I have done it before.\\

Then he’d spit

& give the errant (maybe) sister in question 50 cents for the embryo anyway.

But still…

That night we’d eat well

& go to sleep w/ our bellies full

of potato salad instead of babies

for a change.

In the old days,

it never occurred to us

while pocketing all those $5 bills

to ever even wonder

let alone to ask

Amnio Baba

where it was he rolled off to

in his black horse-drawn carriage

w/ all those withered abortions.